I see them standing at the formal gates of their
colleges,
I see my father strolling out
under the ochre sandscone arch, the
red tiles glinting like bent
plates of blood behind his head, I
see my mother with a few light books at her hip
standing at the pillar made of tiny bricks with the
wrought-iron gate still open behind her, its
sword-tips black in the May air,
they are about to graduate, they are about to get
married,
they are kids, they are dumb, all they know is they
are
innocent, they would never hurt anybody.
I want to go up to them and say Stop,
don't do itshe's the wrong woman,
he's the wrong man, you are going to do things
you cannot imagine you would ever do,
you are going to do bad things to children,
you are going to suffer in ways...